Frankenstein, or, the Modern Hipster
by SophsNotARobot
Summary: Myself and Jennie have created a hipster version of the classic that is, Frankenstein.
1. Chapter 1

_. . . Life . . .  
><em>It's difficult to say that what had scrambled out of a tipi in the backroom of a record store somewhere in Camden is even alive; to say that it was alive would be to defeat the purpose of its creation. I suppose you could say it was _breathing_. Moving, sniffing, touching, and seeing for the first time, but its creator would hate to consider it _thinking_ or _living _at all.  
>He hadn't set out to create life: he wanted to tread new ground, not to go over something that had been done already a million times. Procreation was overrated, though if he had forayed into it, he was sure he'd have had made the most unconventional, enviable father.<br>The back room is musty, like old books, but the creation doesn't know what books are: it doesn't even realise that the things creating the musty smell are old cardboard cases of priceless original records: for example, the Sex Pistols 12" vinyl which had been so carelessly tossed aside, with a scalpel dripping blood idly onto the words _Never Mind The Bollocks_ and faded neon.  
>No, what he had set to create was something better: something inherently superior, just like he was, to all the average Joes milling about in HMV, wondering where they could get the new Rihanna album. He doubted they could have even named the lead singer of Joy Division, or that they even knew where Kurt Cobain lived. If that was the average person who was alive, then he didn't want to pollute the word with another one. Instead, he would create something that didn't live: he would create something that could <em>judge<em>.  
>After a few minutes of just being, the Creature had managed to open its eyes, to painful scorching whiteness. He had forced them shut once more, conflicted because he wanted to see, but it was painful. The sooner he could see, the sooner he could make something of who, what, and <em>why<em> he was.  
>After a while, he opened them fully. He was lying prostrate on the floor, staring up at something white, with a background of something grey. He didn't even know the names of the colours yet: it was unclear what language he was thinking in. His hands felt something soft . . . Of course he could not have known, but they were clothes. He tugged at striped jogging-bottoms, and at a branded sports top, and made a few confused utterances.<br>After a while he rolled over, and with a monumental effort, he sat up.  
>He could not perceive that which he saw, but he made a point, somehow, of remembering it anyway. He felt it to be as important to memorise the moment he awoke as it was to learn to see, or hear properly. If only he could understand . . .<br>His uneducated eyes lay upon the shiny silver metal instruments that had served him up his not-quite-life, as well as the scratchy brown canvas that had been his hiding place: when he touched it, he had a vague memory of its feeling. Though the memory was dull, it was strange for him. How did he remember? . . . _What was the process?  
><em>Once again he cast his critical eyes across the room: there was a rug on the floor, whose colours were brash and bold, and many in number, just as there were on the shelves that lined the walls. He couldn't have known that he was in the backroom of the record shop, or that this was the room for rare records. He himself was a rarity, little did he know: the only one of his kind. It was fitting that this should be the room where he was born – no, _created_.  
>The rest of the floor was the same grey concrete as the ceiling; he now saw that the whiteness of the ceiling was caused by a source of illumination. He was enraptured by this, and immediately was struck with the urge to handle it, to hold it, to own it. He used a nearby workbench to hoist himself to his feet, but withdrew his hand initially: he didn't like the cold metal. That too brought back another memory . . . It was a more painful memory, but in an instant, it was gone. He grasped at it mentally, but it was snatched away like blossom in the wind: born away in darkness and distance, and lost.<br>After substantial effort and time, he stood on his own two feet, at last, balanced yet shaking. He didn't know it was adrenaline spreading through his body like an ink blot through a tissue: he knew that it felt funny, but not entirely unpleasant, for now. It was just the thrill of standing, of being unsupported, of being able to reach out and touch the light which he so desperately longed for . . .  
>"<em>RARGH!<em>"  
>It had been white hot, glass heated with hours and hours of lighting unholy, obscure work. What had been more fearsome than the physical pain had been the assault on his ears that he knew had come from his own mouth. He had shut it straight away, snatching his hand away from the light, and shoving it to his face.<br>What if another sound were to escape? He was entirely sure he didn't want that to happen again. But . . . But if he could just be a little quieter, a little gentler . . .  
>He let out another small noise from his mouth. It was uncouth, and hideous. He shook his head, almost falling over from the new sensation that made his head ache and made his stomach sick, and made him giddy and giggle . . . Giggling was a nicer sound, though it was still unhealthy-sounding, and unpleasant.<br>He peered at his hand, fearful of what he might see as a residual reminder of the searing burn. If pain looked as evil as it felt, then it would be horrible to see . . . He winced and looked away as soon as he saw the red patch on his hand. The strange thing was that it was not the red patch of burnt skin that he was afraid of, but rather the pale deathly-white skin that his hand was comprised of other than it, covered in stitches and staples. He touched it, but didn't want to look at anything so ugly. It was almost alien that it belonged to himself. Upon tugging the stitches, he turned away from his own hand in disgust: the vulgarity of the pain and its appearance had caused him to want to wretch. It was not a pleasant thing, to be confronted so soon after beginning life with anything other than the warmest, most comforting sensations.  
>Eventually, after standing still for a few more minutes, just feeling his arms, and, tentatively, looking at the bare skin of his body where it was visible, there was a deep baritone of a voice, low and careful, behind him:<br>". . . You . . ."  
>The Creature turned around, steadying himself against the rotational movement. His nearly-new eyes struggle to pick out features in a shadowy man's silhouette as he steps up to the threshold of a newly-opened fire escape at the back of the room. He hadn't heard the door: he had been too absorbed in his own appearance – a trait that would come to be the essence of him, as it turned out.<br>The man took his Aviator sunglasses off. Slowly.  
>". . . What have I done? . . ." The man said, stepping forward with a disbelieving face, his hands grasping at brown, messy hair. He was tall, but not excessively, though obviously the Creature had no standard to hold him to. His eyes were surrounded by circles darker than the royal blue velvet coat he wore with his beige chinos, and ironically-worn "I 3 NY" t-shirt.<br>He seemed to be judging his Creature, looking him up and down in horror, in much the same way the Creature had looked at his arms. But the creator wasn't looking at his skin – he had seen enough of it for a lifetime, or more, having stitched and stapled and woven it together with his own hands - or his abnormal stature, which he had so carelessly bestowed. He was examining _his clothes_.  
>"I was . . . Clearly, off my game temporarily . . . When I made you this way . . ." The arrogant young man told his creation, though it scarcely mattered: it was more to protect his own vanity than to inform the being. Suddenly, his speech became more aggressive, with the prolonged forced confrontation of his failures. "Be gone! I don't – I can't see you! Just – Just get out!" The Creature recoiled from his creator's suddenly harsh, loud voice, but didn't exit via the door into the record store. He understood that the man created him, if he understood nothing else: he had to have, with the way he looked at him; the judgemental, critical eye that surveyed him like an incomplete piece of artwork.<br>"GO!" Yelled the man, and in his dark eyes fierce were a warning, as he pulled out his pocket knife. The Creature flinched, remembering the cold of the table, and the dull sensory memory of pain connected with metal implements frightened him, telling him to run, to flee, to fly, to scramble on all fours until he was outside the room, then the building, of his origin, moving even faster than his Creator had hoped or wanted, and into the night. . .


	2. Chapter 2

_He was, by birth, a Londoner. His father had a large house in Islington, easily affordable on his high-ranking lawyer's salary. He was rich and well respected, just like his father before him, and all of the Frankensteins previously as far back as records went. His mother had died when he was sixteen. If you were into psychoanalysing, you might reason that it was because of the loss of his mother that he set about trying to be the most unique, obscure man he could be. Maybe if he was unconventional, then conventional troubles like death and pain couldn't touch him -but that's impossible to say with any certainty. We may never know what his motivation truly was. It is doubtful that even he knew.  
>Of course, he would break the mould. If he conformed in any vague sense to what his father wanted him to be – a lawyer, a banker – then he wouldn't have been Victor; he would never have achieved his dream of being one of the great hipsters of our time. .<br>_

_No: instead, he chose to major in advanced biochemistry, with a minor in fashion. It hadn't been easy, but he was enraptured by it, to the point of unhealthy obsession. He couldn't stand to be distracted from his ultimate goal: creating something totally new, in the laboratory as on the catwalk. Not something alive, but something new- something to set him apart from the pretenders. _

_His obsession resulted in him losing touch. With himself, and with reality. He thought himself a god, inherently above those who he associated with. When they came to ask him questions, or to his loft apartment in Camden – paid for, of course, by his perpetually disappointed father – he spoke and thought like a man humouring sewer rats. He had a girlfriend: a model whom he had met at his student fashion show: she was the only one he could imagine wearing his fashion line. His art mimicked his work in the labs, with obvious suturing and patchwork; bruise-coloured material and blood-red tights. Her physical presence made the end product seem uncannily similar to what he would end up crafting from dead flesh: his Creature.  
>But their relationship was hindered to his blindness to social cues: he didn't even kiss her, but whenever she inquired why not, he would just mumble something like, "Kissing? . . . No, no . . . Too mainstream . . . <em>Everyone _kisses, Elizabeth. Do you want to be like everyone?"  
>The same applied to anything beyond kissing, too. It rankled with her, but then she was so in awe of this amazing man that she could hardly argue with his faux-logic. <em>

_He saw little else than his compulsion, to the envy of his peers. His drive, attitude and uniqueness earned him a reputation, as well as a large group of friends and followers who regarded him as the greatest hipster that had ever lived. It wasn't uncommon to go into a coffee shop in Camden or Covent Garden and hear mutterings of his name from writers sipping at espressos as they struggled to muster an original thought between them. His exploits were public property: where was he now? What was he wearing lately? What was Victor making at the moment? Clothes?- Something else? Of course there were rumours that he had demanded increasingly peculiar and horrifying things from those who procured his materials for him, but no one suspected for a minute that Frankenstein would seriously be interested in spare limbs or internal organs.  
>Perhaps he could have enjoyed this acclaim, but he was unable to: until his work was consummated, it owned him.<br>In short, Victor Frankenstein was a man consumed by one single, unhealthy obsession, and it had been that way for as long as he could remember. It was the only thing that really mattered to him. _

Raised voices emanated from the camera shop, despite the fact it was late, and dark, and there was hardly anyone around. It frightened the Creature, who had spent half an hour running about Camden in search of . . . Well, he didn't really know.  
>The voices were higher and lighter than his creator's baritone, or his own hideous exclamations. When he came up to the doorway of the still-lit shop, he perceived two people having verbal altercation, pointing at one another, with aggressive body language. The people appeared physically different from himself or his creator. Something told him that they were the same species, but maybe . . . They were of a different gender? Yes, that was correct – higher voices, smaller physiques. His keen sense of smell confirmed the difference, also. They were women, younger than his creator, but older than himself. He was only forty-five minutes or so old, after all. Not that he had the concept of time quite down yet – he just understood that the air was cold on his bare feet and arms, and that it was getting progressively darker. He had feared that it was something to do with his vision, but when he looked up into the sky and saw something bright and silver shining down upon the streets, he knew that he could still distinguish brightness. It had appeared magnificent to his eyes, but remembering the light bulb that had burnt his still-sore hands, he was still a little wary of that which shines bright.<br>That said, the shop with its doors still open, and its lights still illuminated, had attracted him like a moth to a flame. The voices had also drawn him in: despite being threatened by his creator, and the fact that the voices sounded hostile, he still couldn't keep away. Perhaps he was a sociable creature after all? Not that he understood the concept of friendship, or love, yet. These feelings were very basic, but still complex to him.  
>He couldn't understand what the two women's voices were saying, but something in the tone of the people made it sound very, <em>very<em> serious. He wondered if one of them had been physically injured, but he couldn't smell the metallic sting of blood in the air with his amazing sense of smell, like he could when he was back at the record store. He had known it was blood, because when he lifted his sutured arms to his nose, the same queasy mix of salt and metal assaulted his nostrils.  
>The women were peculiar-looking to him: their eyes were lined with black, making them look much larger than any he had seen before, and their skin seemed void of blemishes. That said, they smelt sickly sweet, with a smell of chemicals he couldn't identify as make up. Their clothes showed a lot of their tanned skin, and were flattering. He couldn't say they were beautiful, because he had no standard to compare them to, but to him in that moment, they were the most desirable creatures that walked the planet.<br>They smelled unpleasant to his sensitive nose, and this added to their arguments convinced him to hang back. After all, hadn't even his creator shunned him? . . . What if these apparently delightful creatures did the same?  
>He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he could hear:<br>"Could you just take a picture of me already, or do you want to bitch and moan at me some more first?"  
>"You are such a camera whore!"<br>"I'm a model. It's my job to get my picture taken, dumbass!"  
>"Yeah, whatever. 'Model'. <em>Everyone <em>knows you sleep with the photographers,"  
>"That was one time! I wouldn't have asked you to come and test out fisheye lenses with me if I'd known you were going to be a twat about it. Fuck, when did you become such a bitch?"<br>"Me? Bitch, you . . ."  
>But she stopped, trailing off. Her face drained of colour, and she grabbed the display of Canon cameras they were standing in front of to steady herself, in vain. She actually passed out, keeling over. She was staring at the front door, where the Creature stood.<br>The other girl frowned, and muttered something like, "Fucking drama queen . . ." before turning around, and trying to see what she was looking at.  
>Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and she went rigid and cold. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and gradually, painfully, ascended to behold the entire body of the seven foot spectre in the doorway. She opened her mouth to say something, but at that point he took a step forward, and made a horrific noise.<br>"I . . . I'm not gonna . . . S - Scream . . . I . . . What the fuck are you wearing?" She said suddenly, and though he couldn't understand her, he interpreted her unkind up-and-down look at him as a critical reception of his clothes.  
>His face contorted into a defensive expression, as he tugged at his sports top, and his tracksuit bottom.<br>"You don't come around here dressed like that unless you wanna get stabbed . . . I mean, it doesn't do you any favours, does it? Fuck, you've already got the whole plastic-surgery-gone-wrong look going on, why make it worse with _those_? She said, indicating his clothes again. Confused, he backed away, not liking the sound of her criticisms.  
>"I . . . I think you should just go, now . . . I – I'll call the police! . . . I'll say you hurt her! They'll believe me over a . . . A . . . A freak, like you! . . . Get out!"<br>He drew back, frightened, though she was much smaller than him. She didn't have his enhanced senses, or his muscles, but she still looked terrifying to him.  
>"Fuck off!" She screamed at him, lurching forward. This was enough to send him running out of the only shop with the lights on, and out onto the streets.<br>He sprinted around the streets, unsure of what to do, or where to go, until he saw another light: blue and red, with white squiggles that he couldn't have understood said, 'LONDON UNDERGROUND'. He'd made his way to the underground station, flying down the steps, vaulting the ticket barriers so stealthily that the skeleton-crew of underground workers didn't even notice him – not that he knew he was committing a crime by failing to pay for a ticket.  
>Though the steep escalator moving all by itself scared him initially, after a while he plucked up the courage to tentatively put one of his feet on the first step. His other foot was dragged along with it, as he clung to the step, sitting on it, not moving and quaking with fear. When he got to the bottom, he got off the escalator gladly, running for the nearest exit he could find, and coming across a platform.<br>There were very few people on the platform, and he found he'd reached a dead end, aside from a dark tunnel. He reluctantly climbed down onto what he didn't know was the train track, and began to walk into the dark, looming tunnel. Suddenly, from behind him, he heard drunken shouting that drew his attention.  
>"Hey, mate! . . . Mate! Get off the track, you wanker! . . . "<br>Frowning, the Creature turned around to face the only two people at the edge of the platform. But they'd already lost interest in him. He was far from disinterested in them, though: he stood in the middle of the track, looking at them quizzically, and listening to their slurred speech.  
>". . . Said 'e was, like . . . Working on some shit, I don't know . . . Something to do with science. Like . . . Organs and shit. Fuck,"<br>"I . . . I, I dunno, mate, I though, like . . . I thought he was a designer or something . . . I don't know a lot about him, though, 'cept from he's got a fuckin' fine bird . . . Doesn't even go near 'er, though . . . What a fuckin' waste!"  
>He noticed them swaying as they talked, louder than was normal in his experience – granted, his experience was limited to a threat and an argument, but they still sounded really loud. Maybe this was the normal talking volume? He memorised that for if he ever decided to try and speak again.<br>They were both men, both similar looking. Both wearing jumpers: one knitted, burgundy and oversized, and one grey jersey with an ironic original MTV logo on it. He couldn't have known that was what it was: he just thought it odd that two people would wear the same three-quater-length blue jeans and lace-up Keds as one another by choice. He presumed they were twins, or part of a tribe, or something. He couldn't have been sure, but it still seemed very weird.  
>"Seriously, mate . . . Th' train'll be here in like . . . A minute or something . . ." One of them called out to him. He suddenly became aware of a low rumbling, like white noise. It was coming from the tunnel that he was standing close to. He edged closer to it, and listened intently. He couldn't say how far away it was – he couldn't really make a guess based on experience, after all – but he could say with a fair degree of certainty that it was getting closer, because the noise was getting louder. Now there was a screeching sound, like screaming, or . . . Or? Or something more specific, more memorable to him . . .<br>. . . The sound of metal screeching on metal. It set his teeth on edge, and raised the hairs on his arms. It made him want to shake, which he did so violently. He used his depleted bodily control to back away from the tunnel, as if he could back away from the memories.  
>He saw light in the tunnel, and could see that something was approaching around a corner. There was a rhythmic pulsing roar, which was in line with his fast heart beat, and brought back even more memories for him.<br>Oh, the horror of being born – no, created! He was a wretch, not worthy or deserving of a birth, nor a name. The sound of his own heartbeat and the blood in his ears; the feelings of pain that accompanied the screech of metal-on-metal; the sudden bright light and dark loneliness which were entwined upon his awakening. . . These were the things that his current situation reminded him of. He scrambled up to the side, leaning on it for support, as he panted and stared at the oncoming headlights, just like the blinding illumination of the single, burning bulb.  
>The roar got too much for him: roaring himself, unable to hear the hideous noise that his mouth produced, he hoisted himself onto the platform just in time to be out of the way of the train, which slowed to a halt in front of him. It was well-lit, and not many people adorned its carpeted seats. He panted, staring confused at the train.<br>"Mate . . . Are you alright . . .?" Asked one of the drunken pair, as they came up to stumble through the door of the train, he put an arm on the Creature's shoulder.  
>The Creature made a noise that could only be described as a growl, rumbling up from his stomach, and overflowing from his mouth, escaping from his throat.<br>"Alright, easy!" The man said, falling backwards and away from the Creature.  
>"You're . . . Y' fucked, mate . . . Come on, then!" He said, not learning from his friend's mistakes, and tugging the Creature's arm, and yanking him onto the train. At that moment, there was a voice that the Creature couldn't identify the source of, which sounded unnatural and flat.<br>At that moment, the train began to move, making the Creature panic, as he was whisked away into the dark tunnels with the same screeching noises as before, but with the lights of the train and the idle chatter of his two new acquaintances to comfort him. He wondered where he would end up . . . If his creator would ever find him. Would he even care? He couldn't be sure . . .  
>He just knew that he was tired, and so curled up on a carpeted tube seat, the motion of the vehicle rocking him like a gentle hand, and fell through the welcome darkness behind his eyes until he was dead to the world and his creator alike.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

_Failure? . . . He wasn't sure he could bring himself to class it as failure. He had made it, from scratch, where no one else possibly could have. He was the original, the best, only one who could do what he did. That, in his eyes, was the ultimate opposite of failure.  
>But there was the issue of workmanship . . . He looked down at its face, and an untrained onlooker may have seen love or affection in his eyes, as one might look at a child or a pet. However, they quickly turned to a calculating analysis of its facial features and body.<br>Its hair was untamed and coarse. At first, he had thought himself unable to give it hair, but he would be damned if he couldn't make it fit in with the fashionable hairstyles he himself indulged in, and so he had persevered. He hadn't cut it yet, so it was incredibly scruffy.  
>The face he had tried to find for a long time: it was paramount that the face was exactly right, or he may never forgive himself. He had scoured the obituaries with grim determination, but had found no one with the face he had envisaged. At last, when he had found the correct face, he got one of his followers to unquestioningly dig the man up. The wounds on the body required stitching up from the motorcycle crash that had killed him, and most of his internal organs needed a viable replacement: however, it wasn't technically alive yet, and the wounds couldn't heal if the blood wasn't being pumped around its veins with a thriving heart. It would have many scars . . . Victor grimaced as he thought about how painstakingly he had sutured each of its wounds, and yet it would never meet the standards which humanity set in the looks department. He hoped that its clothes, its magnificent style, and the fact that it was his, would be enough to outshine everyone.<br>Its limbs were gangly and long, and he had made it unintentionally seven foot tall by replacing amputated legs with the only available viable tissue-matched ones: it would stand out, and be fantastical to all who beheld it, he hoped keenly. It would certainly be a spectacle . . . He wasn't sure if this was a good thing.  
>Music in the background emanating from the record player in the makeshift 'lab' at the back of the record store was heard but not listened to properly by Victor, except from on a drifting on-and-off basis. It was important that it play though: it was the signal to the front of shop workers that he wanted them to leave him alone, and not come to the 'lab'. He had paid them well; they were too dim to enquire what he was doing; perhaps they were smart not to ask.<br>But in the same look that had begun with affection, a hint of loathing began to show, like the decay of ripe fruit. He thought about the end product of his months of suffering and toil; devoting every waking - and dreaming - thought to his employment. And yet here he was, in front of something that he thought could never, ever be construed as looking beautiful by anyone in their right mind.  
>'. . . I was looking for a job and then I found a job . . .'<br>It was time. He stepped back, grimacing, and listened to the melancholy tones of the song. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, and wiped it on his messy overall, splattered dramatically with blood like a surgeon in a cheap hospital drama.  
>He didn't realise that he was breathing too heavily, sweating profusely, nor that his heart was beating in his ears or that his eyes were watering; he was listening to the song:<br>". . . And heaven knows, I'm miserable now . . ."  
>He looked at his work's face again, part-frustrated, part-sickened at its appearance. How had he, so learned in beauty and style, made something so utterly abhorrent? He considered not animating it . . .<br>. . . It was the fleeting thought of a second, and the notion got no further than a whim. He checked the large chloride battery, reciting to himself that he had induced spasms in it before, and that he would do it again. It had been necessary to 'wake' it, and make it breathe, so as to perform surgeries he could only do when it was alive. He had needed a blood flow; a beating heart, to test its bodily systems before he bestowed full animation. He doubted it could remember; even more, he hoped it hadn't felt the pain it had gone through during the operations, as he had judged it a waste of time to provide expensive and presumably unnecessary anaesthetic for something barely alive.  
>He glanced at the zinc plate laid on a solution of ammonium chloride and Ceylon moss, and reassured himself: you are ready. You can do this. It will be fully animate. It'll be . . . Alive?<br>He balked slightly at the thought of the usual way that life was brought into the world. He shivered, thinking of Elizabeth. What would she say? Should it matter to him? Yes, it _should_, but did it? He wasn't sure. It would be a pity to lose her over something which she didn't understand: his internal dive and need to complete his work, and the topic of it. He hoped she would never see it, never. . . Never _meet_ it.  
>That was enough. Too many second, and third, and forty thousandth thoughts were echoing through his head, and he knew that it was now or never.<br>He threw the switch.  
>The frame convulsed like it had been shocked with a defibrillator, which was essentially the case, if a lot more complex. He thought he heard a gasp, but it might have been imagined; it could have even been his own shocked reaction to the body's violent full-body spasm.<br>After the initial jump, the work lay there, motionless. He approached its eyes eagerly, looking desperately for signs of movement, of – of _life_. His breath caught when he saw that its eyelids were twitching, affording him passing glimpses of eyes whose colour couldn't be pinned down to a single word: they were pale, but whether they were grey, blue, or green was a matter he couldn't resolve.  
>He peeled back one of the flickering lids, and shone his small torch in the eyes beneath it, and then in the other one. His hands quivered in excitement: its pupils were equal and reactive.<br>But it wasn't moving . . . It was breathing now, he could see, in a more defined manner. He wondered why it wouldn't open its eyes, but the realisation came when he observed its behaviours.  
>Though many lines and wires were attached to it, threading in and out of its skin like a stitched pattern on a cushion, it rolled onto its left side. Doubtless this pulled at its skin, and it appeared to only gently frown, though the pain looked unbearable and horrifying to Victor, with the amount of pulling canulars. But it curled up wires and all, bringing its knees up to its chest for warmth and bunching into the foetal position. Victor realised: it was <em>sleeping_.  
>Looking down on it almost benevolently, he moved it into the large tipi he had put up at the side of the back room, and shut the canvas sheet behind him after removing all non-essential lines, making it dark to help it sleep more easily.<br>He leant against the wall facing the tipi, barely observing the room, its floor splattered with blood, and gently chiming metal knives lining the walls. He threw one of them out, as he swayed slightly with his light-headedness. He . . . He'd done it . . .  
>He was fully aware now of his adrenaline-addled body. He was filled by a sense of pride, but it was nothing that would ever be found in a hospital delivery room. His eyes were clouded, seeing his multitude of thoughts, and no longer his surroundings.<br>His toils were completed. He had animated a frame. The sick feeling of nervousness and apprehension set in after this thought, as another layer of realisation set in . . .  
>. . . What was he going to do now? . . . <em>

Panting, the Creature hid behind a tree. He doubted they could see him, and they probably couldn't smell him, either: he'd found that not everyone's sense of smell was as good as his, luckily for him.  
>Since being shouted awake on the Underground train, he'd vacated the station and ended up somewhere totally different to the streets he'd seen before; he'd ended up in a park, where a few people were sitting talking loudly and enjoying a picnic with music. It turned out, to the Creature's dismay, that they were much more afraid of him that the drunk men from last night, whom he couldn't find come the morning. They had shouted at him, but eventually had run away, surrendering their food to him.<br>The Creature, who hadn't eaten since . . . _Ever_, greedily snacked on bread and cheese, but found the soup from the shiny flask much too hot, burning his tongue on it and throwing it away in disgust. He also ate an apple, core and all, as he listened to vaguely familiar music emanate from a shiny plastic device on the floor. He would never have been able to identify it as a portable IPod dock, but he was grateful for the tuneful melody of the music.  
>this was all before the chase: the Hipsters – for that was what they were – who had been discussing their favourite David Bowie records before they had been 'accosted' in their opinion by the Creature, had returned with backup. The crowd they had surmounted after a trip to several coffee shops of all local and available Hipsters was large in number, and they had all come with the promise of seeing a 'monster'; a 'far out, 'fuck off massive guy' who had stolen their stuff. The story escalated, until it was rumoured that he had a gun, he was a terrorist, and that he had killed a passer-by right in front of them.<br>The advancing hostile crowd, all camera phones and penknives, was enough to scare the Creature off, as it gained on him with evil, malicious cries of revenge for a crime he didn't know he was committing in the first place.  
>They gave chase to him, chasing him through the trees surprisingly quickly. But the Creature's long legs had managed to propel him forward, and with effort, he had outrun them, frantically looking for somewhere to hide and lose his unwanted tail.<br>So now, he slumped against the tree, as soon as he had held his breath for a few minutes, waiting for the sound of footfall and shouting from the hipsters he'd just evaded.  
>He relaxed partially, but wasn't fully at rest. He leant his head back, and hit it against the rough bark of the tree, sliding down against the tree, until he was sitting up against the mighty oak, knees arched to his chest, hands hugging them towards him. He screwed his eyes shut, and let out a tear or two. Sadness was not an emotion he enjoyed, and yet it seemed to be the only one he could muster. Was this the unenviable situation of man, to seek to be happy when the possibility of happiness was forever realistically out of reach? If so, he did not want to be a man. People were treating him like a monster . . . Perhaps he should behave like an animal, or a monster. That said, he knew he would find it difficult to be mindlessly emotionless like an animal. He was stuck between man, and beast. Accepted by neither, feared by both . . . Was there no one upon this earth that would ever love him?<br>At the precise moment that this thought crossed his mind, a strange whispering came about in the air. It was as if the wind had gained a voice more than its usual mumbling cadence. It was rhythmic, and progressively louder; it was from these facts that the Creature reasoned that this was not the sound of the wind alone. This was confirmed when, gradually, something began to materialise in front of him.  
>It was slightly taller than he was; the material it was made of appeared natural, like the wood of the tree he had taken shelter under, but it was a garish yet deep and welcoming blue in colour. It was making a grating noise that, although idiosyncratic, wasn't <em>entirely<em> evil or hostile . . . Still, he withdrew, backing away towards the tree from his original decision to go forth and look closer at it. Before, it had been a chimera; a ghost appearing before him. Now, he could plainly see it: something that was solid, and yet hadn't been there before. He felt threatened, but inquisitive, about the great blue box.  
>There was a moment of silence, laden with tension and questions. He didn't dare move from where he stood, backed against the trunk of the tree, his hands gripping onto its bark until they were scratched and grazed by it. He didn't much care: to him, it was a false comforter, and an anchor of reality against the unreality of the situation. Even a Creature born yesterday knew that blue boxes didn't just . . . <em>Emerge<em>, from nothing at all!  
>Suddenly, with a squeak, the door of the blue box opened, and a man strode out, apparently talking to himself, and fiddling with something that made a strange noise like nothing he had ever heard before: not on the train, or in the camera shop, or the park, or even in the strange place where he was born.<br>"Next time, I will try and have a face that people actually listen to rather than just ignore, like for instance when I say 'don't wonder off', you'll all go, 'Yes that sounds like a fab idea, and by the way, I really like your bow tie, bow ties are indeed cool, and so are fezzes, please accept my humblest . . .'" He stopped when he looked up from his device and at the Creature.  
>"' . . . Apologies . . .' Hello, there!" He said brightly, with a cautious yet fascinated smile spreading across his face. "Have you seen my friend? I was supposed to pick her up from around here. Her name is Amy Pond, she's about my height, Scottish, wears a lot of plaid; she's ginger, hard to miss?"<br>The Creature was taken aback, not only by the way the man dressed, nor his futuristic device, nor even the fact he was being spoken to like a normal person without being judged . . . He could _understand _the man!  
>He felt he should respond, and opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again, frowning with an exasperated look, feeling futile and unhelpful.<br>"Come along now, speak up! The TARDIS'll take care of any language barriers! That's how you can understand me right now, isn't it?" The man told him, looking into both of his eyes in turn, and not once looking horrified at what he saw. It was true that he'd glanced at the sutures, the staples, the scruffy black hair, but he didn't have a judgemental or disgusted edge to his expression upon his face when doing so. He looked frankly . . . Delighted? The Creature was so taken aback that all he could say, in the politest way possible, was: "Sorry, I'm afraid I haven't seen her . . ."  
>He jumped at his own voice. It was a deep baritone, deeper even than his Creator's. It was almost . . . <em>Nice<em> to listen to. He spoke in his creator's voice - had he done it on purpose, by accident? It was the first voice he had ever heard, and he had vague memories, like painful dreams, of his creator's voice mumbling; whispering sometimes to himself, and sometimes to his creation. That was the voice he now spoke with, despite his uncertain feelings towards his creator, the man who had abandoned him after so carelessly bestowing life. Oh, blasted creator! Why did he make sport of his life, and his emotions likewise?  
>The Creature had thought itself a being of simpler organisation than its creator, the man, the god who could grant life . . . But when he had spoken, and the memories of a feeble man trying too hard to be unique had flooded back to him, he had partially reconsidered this view.<br>"Ah well, she'll turn up. The Ponds always do. In fact, all people who names involve a body of water . . . You wouldn't happen to be a Mr. 'Ocean' would you? What's your name?" He smiled, in a temporary reverie, before springing this unanswerable question on the Creature.  
>He paused to consider it.<br>"I, um . . . I not really . . . I just a sort of . . . Creature, I not even sure I need a name - I not sure I'm human, I just sort of . . ." He paused, because he realised he was rambling. Speaking was easy now, but deciding what to say was turning out to be a whole new can of worms. "No one's told me. No one's told me _anything_ useful . . ."  
>"Hmm," The man said, frowning, "Well, I'll tell you something useful, 'Creature'. I'm over 900 years old; I've travelled all over space and time, and I suppose there's a first time for everything because in those 900 years I have never met anyone," He said, gently taking the Creature's shoulders in his hands, and staring up into his eyes with a look of faint amusement and care, "Who doesn't deserve a name."<br>The Creature looked into his dark, brown eyes and wondered if this was even real. It wasn't negative and scary like his dreams; though it was equally surreal . . .  
>"I'm disappointed, really. I didn't think human beings could be so cold as to not give another human being a name," He said conversationally, letting go; gesturing his disappointment.<br>"Creature," The Creature part corrected, part decided: "I'm Creature,"  
>The man lowered his eyes and smiled, nodding once. "Nice to meet you, Creature. I'm the Doctor, and why, may I ask, haven't you got any shoes?"<br>The Creature just shrugged at the Doctor. He had to admit, given what he'd seen so far, aside from his blatant abnormal appearance, having no shoes had set him apart from everyone else.  
>"Did you leave them at home? I mean, I have to admit, I like to go barefoot sometimes – <em>especially<em> when I'm on the Moon," He added, turning away and pointing into the air to emphasise the point, "– but you must be a bit chilly, no?" He asked, looking into the Creature's eyes in smiling contemplation. The Creature felt like he was being tested.  
>"No, no, I not cold. Not cold at all. And don't have one,"<br>"What, a shoe? You need two, surely? That reminds me, I did want to make a stop off at the Planet of the One Footed Guild, the shoes they sell have the best arch support, though they're a little pricey 'cause if you're bipedal you have to buy two and they're sold separately-"  
>"A home," The Creature interrupted, "I don't have a home . . . No family – I mean, I have creator, but he just sort of . . . Uh, he don't want me." He finished, bluntly.<br>The Doctor smiled sympathetically, as he contemplated the Creature's situation.  
>"Don't worry. Dads are rubbish, except for when they're not. Luck of the draw, I guess – Come inside, you can explain it to me," He invited, swinging the box's door open.<br>"Inside a box? . . . With you? But - I . . . You aren't scared of me?" he asked, curiously, sniffing at the box as he approached it and its owner. He felt the wood; the miniature indentations in the blue material that told a thousand stories he could never fathom.  
>"Scared? Of you? . . . If you wanted to scare me, you'd have to do something very awful indeed. As it is, I do believe you're a good man, with no home, and no shoes - a dire state of affairs, you'll agree, so . . . Shall we?" The Doctor asked, throwing the door open wide and encouraging the furtive Creature inside.<br>There was a shout from not far off: a Hipster had eventually caught up and spotted a large blue box, a man in a suit, and a seven foot _thing_, according to his shouting. The Creature's head turned to see the crowd running towards them, and his eyes widened, as he understood their cries. He was left with no choice: he stepped forward, and the Doctor, who had spotted the crowd too, grabbed his hand with a quick, "Come along, Creature . . . We've got some shoes to find!"  
>With that, the door slammed shut, and the hostile crowd's anger was nullified by the sight of the infamous sought-after blue box, and its main resident harbouring the monster and disappearing as they stood helplessly by.<br>Jaws agape, they would tell tales of the day they had at last seen the Doctor, and that he had taken with him a monster . . .


	4. Chapter 4

"Haven't I seen you before?" Asked the Doctor, peering up momentarily from where he was rummaging under the TARDIS console for something. He promptly found what he was looking for: a shiny red apple, which he threw to the still-hungry Creature, who grabbed it and gave it a quizzical look. He hadn't had his fill of food after pilfering the hipsters' picnic, but he wasn't sure what to make of it – was it right to eat it? After all, the last time he'd eaten he'd been chased by an angry mob.  
>He sniffed it, and his sensitive nose identified a sweet, sugary scent below the surface that was appealing to him. He recognised it from before: he had eaten one whole at the picnic, assumed it was correct to try and swallow it whole. He glanced at the Doctor, who was leaning against the TARDIS console, for reassurance; he smiled back at the Creature in wordless, smiling encouragement and crossed his arms. The apple was snaffled up in seconds with his blessing. The Doctor shook his head with a smile at the Creature's innocent ways – he intended to try and keep them intact, despite bestowing knowledge upon him.<br>He had long since finished staring around in wonderment at the fantastical ship and looking the Doctor up and down tentatively. However, he still found it hard to match the Doctor's wise old stare. He was but a child, ignorant in the ways of the world, and the Doctor was obviously so knowledgeable about not only this world, but others.  
>His knowledge about other worlds, and other times, wasn't surprising to the Creature. After all, no one had informed him that there was 'no such thing' as time travel, or space travel, or aliens, so he didn't know any better. He assumed himself so ignorant, yet nothing was further from the truth: he knew more about what is possible and impossible in the universe than nearly all other humans, what with being created in a way thought impossible and meeting the Doctor, despite the fact they had many years' experience of life more than him. <p>

When he'd first entered the TARDIS, The Doctor was surprised when he heard, instead of ''It's bigger on the inside'', The Creature opted for, '". . . It smell _beautiful_ . ."  
>Very unusual. Very impressive. He hadn't heard that one before, although he did insist that rather than called the TARDIS an 'it' he call the ship a 'she'. He was beginning to like this Creature, with his quirky speech patterns, and his unusual appearance, and his unique way of seeing things . . . He had decided to take him under his wing and, to use the Creature's own remark about no one having told him anything 'useful' yet, teach him what he deemed 'useful'.<br>In response to the Doctor's question, Creature looked rightly puzzled, as he couldn't think at all why the Doctor might have seen him before.  
>He watched the man tap a screen, staring at it intently, as if he were looking for something: he'd observed the same finicky and hurried behaviour when he'd seen people on the tube searching their person for wallets, purses, tickets, money, and other things – not that the Creature could have possibly known what these items were, or rather, their significance to the people (he hadn't bought a ticket, but had managed to outrun the guards at the station who had found him asleep on the train).<br>The screen was just out of view of the Creature, as he considered how to answer, addressing the ever-pressing issue of which words to use. He loved to talk, having been deprived of this skill for most of his short life, but his choice of words often came out sounding wrong, and disappointed him; he found it _infuriating_.  
>"I not seen you. I only been around a few hours – out of lab, whatever you call it. Before that . . ." He shrugged. "I can't say, I not know."<br>"I _don_'_t _know – Rule Number 1: in this area of London, it is VERY important to get your grammar right! There are a lot of grammar Nazis around here," The Doctor chided, but in a kind way, so as not to offend the Creature. Truth be told, he was concentrating on his search on the screen in front of him, and was answering absent-mindedly.  
>"What is 'Grammar Nazi'?" The Creature inquired eagerly.<br>"What is _a_ Grammar Nazi? Singular. Don't worry; you'll get the hang of it. The TARDIS only does language; she doesn't really do grammar, although I suppose the whole travelling in time and space thing more than makes up for it. A 'Grammar Nazi' is someone who is very particular about grammar and it's correct use, and will regard you as a worthless human being if you don't us it correctly, although that's rather paradoxical, seeing as there's no such thing as a worthless human . . . being . . ."  
>He trailed off, and seemed to be looking at something intently on a little screen in front of him that the Creature couldn't see. He was reading.<br>The Creature scampered round around the deck to where the Doctor was standing, and tried to look at the screen, but the Doctor got rid of what he was looking at before he could properly understand it. He saw one word, but he didn't know what it meant.  
>"What is . . . Oh. . . Oh-bit . . . Tu . . . Ary? . . . Obituary?" He asked the Doctor.<br>The Doctor looked a bit paler than before when he looked into the Creature's eyes, and turned away, fiddling with the TARDIS' dials in a non-committal way, as if for no other purpose than to distract himself, as he answered.  
>"It's an article about someone who's died, written by their friends and family, or admirers – like that one you just saw: actor, early thirties, dies in tragic motorcycling collision . . . Elementary . . ." He had a thousand-yard stare which the Creature couldn't read.<br>"Anyway! It's _an_ obituary! . . . Honestly, Creature, you must really learn!"  
>The Creature shrugged, and the Doctor smiled with a mock weary sigh.<br>"Oh, alright then!" He said, rushing off in a blur of movement again, twirling about and flicking switches, pulling levers and pushing buttons as the Creature watched in awe, "– I won't pick you up on it. It's good to be unique anyway. What does it matter that you can't get your pronouns right, eh? To hell with it! You know what we should do? I think we should go shopping!"  
>"Shop-ping?" The Creature asked, trying to keep up with the Doctor, following him around the TARDIS like an obedient dog, hanging on his every word.<br>"Yes, it's where you go out and buy things with money," The Doctor said briskly.  
>"Money?" The Creature pressed.<br>"Oh, I'm not going to go into the whole economic system right now - what year is it? 2011? Well, I'm _definitely _not going to be explaining the global recession to you, and contrary to popular belief, I wasn't even there, so there's no way you're pinning that on me, _I _had nothing to do with it-" He talked hurriedly as he continued to prepare the TARDIS for takeoff, gesticulating wildly. "- The Master on the other hand -"  
>"Don't you have to go find friend?" The Creature recalled suddenly, stopping the Doctor in mid-rant.<br>"Hmm? Oh, the Ponds! Don't worry about them, I can stop by and get them from anywhere at any time, they'll be _fine!_" He said, dismissing the concern lightly. ". . . But if they _did_ get into trouble, I told them to pretend to be Felix and Agatha, hapless newlyweds lost on their way to New New York,"  
>The Creature nodded, though he wasn't sure what most of that sentence meant. He understood that 'New New York' was probably a place, but he didn't know what 'newlyweds' meant; he hadn't even the slightest inkling.<br>"Besides," the Doctor carried on, "I know this lovely little planet where every shop is a second hand clothing shop. Don't worry, it's a lot like Earth, except normal people are hipsters for being normal, and hipsters are normal for being hipsters, although that's about the direction this area of London's headed in anyway, isn't it?"  
>"I don't know!" The Creature said, confused but elated and glad that the Doctor's odd humour after reading the <em>oh-bit-u-ary <em>had dissipated so quickly.  
>"They're just so – so <em>pretentious<em>, aren't they?" The Doctor exclaimed, waving his hand dismissively.  
>"I don't know!" The Creature said again, shrugging and throwing his hands up enthusiastically at the question, which wasn't so much directed at him as rhetorical.<br>"Well, you're about to find out!" The Doctor exclaimed, as he pulled one more leaver, making the entire ship jolt and throwing the Creature about so that he had to grab onto the console, but still not wiping the rictus grin from his face. The Doctor locked eyes with him from across the console, ignoring scars and unshaven, uncouth features and seeing only childlike glee in his eyes, as he cried,  
>"<em>GERONIMO<em>!"

Watery, grey light seeped through the clouds above Victor Frankenstein as, for the first time since meeting his creation; he stepped out of his 'lab' and into the day. The cold breeze shook him harder than it had the previous night when he'd stepped through the fire escape and seen a seven foot wretch standing in the back room. He left by the same door a changed man, much older than before.  
>He had sat in the locked-up room all night, staring at the walls in catatonic languor, as he listened to his records and yet again asked himself, '<em>What was he going to do now?'<br>_He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd cried: how had something so ugly, so vicious, and so hateful come into being at his hand? To him, there was no denying the sinister look in his creation's eyes, as their pale colour flickered in the bulb's light from blue, to grey, to green . . . But always full of murder.  
>He was shaking, still. It had built up over the night with his anxiety and sick feeling, and was clearly nothing to do with the cold. He stared up at the sky, and put his aviator sunglasses on, though it wasn't sunny. He couldn't deal with the brightness of the sky right now, and besides, his eyes were shrouded in tired black from the night's heady contemplation.<br>He stumbled down the alleyway, pulling his long, navy, velvet coat around himself. He hoped that if anyone saw him, a vintage genuine military coat – golden buttons and all, circa 1967, and the release of _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club _– would be enough to distract from his dismal, shaken appearance. He clung to it, his fingers digging into his opposite arms in a subconscious attempt at self-reassurance.  
>He wasn't long out on the high street and on his way home when he was accosted from across the street with a cry of, "Frankenstein!"<br>He looked up, distracted from his internal stream of thought by this outside influence: who should he see but his old school friend from his time at Harrow, Henry Clerval?  
>"Clerval!" He cried in response, suddenly superficially elated at the sight of an old familiar face just across the street. He noticed that beside his friend there was a moving van, outside a small coffee shop with a flat above. He crossed the street hurriedly, dodging several cyclists on their way to work, and taxi cabs whose drivers yelled at him for being so thoughtless as to not check the road before he crossed it.<br>"My dear Frankenstein! How glad I am to see you!" Clerval exclaimed, grabbing his old friend by one shoulder, shaking his hand and beaming. Clerval had always been of a naturally sunny and generous disposition, where Victor had been anxious and inquisitive primarily, as well as creative. Too creative at times.  
>He had easily seen that it was his friend from the shock of bright ginger hair he always covered with a knitted hat of some description: the type that is too big for the wearer's head and that looks like a tea cosy, but is worn in all weathers and situations despite this.<br>Clerval was a singer-songwriter, who loved to travel and write a blog, too. He was a man of singular talent even when they were growing up, and he could always make Victor happy when no one else could.  
>He had a penchant for fashion as Victor did, too, and wasn't ever without his knitted hat or straightened hair. He was the type that would wear an obscure band t-shirt, plaid, jeans and some boater shoes whatever the weather; he was so laid back and outgoing. Of course, each item would be on its own over a hundred pounds in value, often bought from shops such as Hollister or Abercrombie.<br>His freckly skin and hopeful, bright blue eyes, visible like shining sapphires even from across the street, had discovered him to Victor as his cheerful old classmate. No one could have been further from Victor Frankenstein than Henry Clerval, even before his role as a creator had depressed his humour further.  
>At school, Clerval had been a brilliant captain of the cricket team, whereas Victor had been praised as a science prodigy by all who taught him. However, having played together throughout their childhoods, as their parents were friends, they remained close allies throughout school. They shared a passion for obscurity, and would do anything to help one another. The precocious Frankenstein was never bullied at school, due to his protection and his status as the popular Clerval's best friend. In turn, Frankenstein would often strive to help Clerval with any maths or science-based homework that he received, which he found very difficult. In adulthood, Clerval was still the very picture of optimism, and a fine figure of health: he was well-built but not overly tall, whereas Frankenstein was lanky and thin. Henry was often seen in his school days as making up for his friend's losses, and it applied the opposite way around, too. Even now, usually they could not be separated.<br>However during the past year, while Victor had been studying, Henry Clerval had been on his Gap Year in Australia, surfing by day and performing his new-folk love songs by night in bars on the beach. His father, a rich merchant, had paid for it all of course. Clerval had implored Frankenstein to come with him, but at the time Frankenstein had just become infatuated with anatomy and couldn't stand to be away from his toils for over an hour, so he had declined.  
>As a habit from their days at Harrow, they would refer to one another by their second names. So, for Victor, to hear himself referred to as 'Frankenstein' during this confusing time in his life, as he walked down the street, was a small comfort that reminded him of a simpler time; he smiled weakly as his old friend went on.<br>"How fortunate that you should be walking down this very street, in this very part of London, just as I was finishing unpacking my shit from the van and moving into my new flat! It's the one above the coffee shop you'll no doubt have worked out – I just got back from Australia, Frankenstein! I have so much to tell you!" He laughed. As a lyricist, Clerval was used to using poetic language, but it often jarred with the swear words and curses his everyday speech was littered with, producing an odd speech pattern that Frankenstein, as a hipster, envied copiously.  
>"Come on, the cafe's open - are you free for a chat?" His friend asked his with hopeful eyes.<br>Victor considered it, his rattled and distracted mind unsure of what he was doing for the rest of the day, the week, the month, the year . . . He laughed hysterically, and nodded, adding, "Obviously!"  
>"Wizard-!" Clerval replied, and pulled Frankenstein – by the hand – into the coffee shop where he ordered two cappuccinos. He still knew his friend's coffee order, Frankenstein's addled mind noted feebly.<br>When they received their coffee, Clerval began to explain at length that he was becoming more and more successful in Australia, and that he was about to start touring in England, and that his blog was accumulating quite a big global following, and that he was currently working on new material, but he was having a hard time convincing his father that being a singer-songwriter was a worthy career, and "Whatever is the matter, Frankenstein? Are you unwell?"  
>Victor realised suddenly that he had been holding his cappuccino with shaking, pale hands, and that this hadn't failed Clerval's attention. He put the coffee down abruptly, and finally took off his sunglasses, rubbing his eyes.<br>"I, uh. . . I'm just tired, Clerval. I haven't let myself have a lot of sleep – studying, eh? It'll be the death of me!" Frankenstein told him, laughing in a high-pitched way that was unnerving to his unconvinced friend. Clerval lowered his head and peered into the red, bloodshot eyes of Frankenstein.  
>"For fuck's sake, Frankenstein! What's the matter? . . . Stop laughing!"<br>Frankenstein, it was true, still hadn't stopped laughing since his last remark, and was hysterically holding his head in his hands, shaking it, and crying with laughter. It was a shrill chuckle, not his usual baritone at all, and it was suspicious and scary for an old friend such as Clerval to witness. Distressed, he grabbed Frankenstein urgently by the shoulders, and with a look of concern, listened to Frankenstein's answer:  
>"Do not ask me!" He replied, suddenly straightening up, continuing his unusual spirits and looking wide-eyed into deep blue eyes. "Ask <em>him!<em> _He _can tell!"  
>Clerval's concern only grew at this: his friend was delirious and hysterical – had he gone mad in his absence? Why had this happened? Why had the joy of being reunited been stolen away in such a cruel manner as this?<br>Who was the man of whom he spoke?  
>"Oh, <em>save me!<em>" Frankenstein begged Clerval, his fingernails digging into the other man's arms so that they drew blood and whitened his knuckles. Suddenly, he began to convulse, in a fit, as Clerval watched in disbelief.  
>All he could do was try and help his friend, like always, and call for help. He knew not the reason for his friend's distress, nor what was happening to him. He knew not of his friend's year's employment, nor of last night's sordid creation.<br>He just wished that he had never left for Australia that this may have never happened to his best friend . . . He called an ambulance.


	5. Chapter 5

"Afternoon!"  
>The Doctor cried his greetings to a bored-looking hipster behind the counter of the second hand shop he and the Creature had just sauntered into. The Creature was just about getting the hang of 'sauntering'. The Doctor told him he had 'swagger', also. He just about understood that this was a good thing.<br>The hipster's face lit up: she had skin bluer than the three-mooned sky they had been walking under, and irises pinker than the Creature's brand new Converse sneakers.  
>The afternoon by moon and sunlight was exceptionally bright, so the Creature had invested in some aviator sunglasses to aid his vision; they filled him with a sense of nostalgia, as if it were only yesterday that his creator had looked upon him in horror, removing the very same glasses to view his creation.<br>The Doctor seemingly could have whatever he wanted for free from the shops of Hipsteria. There was one massive continent, full of people who all practically worshipped the ground he walked on. Of course, they could never tell when or where the Doctor would turn up – just like on Earth, though, he was the stuff of legends. But on Hipsteria, they were in no doubt he existed. This was where he came to shop. Added to this he had, on Hipsteria, invented Converse All Stars, thick-rimmed glasses, and bowties.  
>The assistant practically fell over herself to reply, "Good afternoon! Are – Are you . . .?"<br>"I go by DeLacey now. Top tip for you . . . _Enid_," He told her, observing her name from her name tag, "Names with capital letters in the middle are _very_ hipster!" The Doctor enthused, flashing his psychic paper at the assistant to show her his new identity. He made up a new name every time he landed on the planet to amuse himself at people's reactions, but he would still be known as the Doctor when he was spoken of on Hipsteria by all.  
>"DeLacey! . . . Is there anything you're shopping for today in particular?" She asked him, nodding eagerly. It was usually in a hipster's way, the Creature observed, to be nonchalant and careless, but this had gone out of the window for the shop assistant as soon as someone she'd put on a ridiculous pedestal had walked into her shop.<br>"Not me, Enid - my friend here. His name is Creature. Basically he wasn't born, he was created: don't ask, it's very distracting. He's looking for the quirkiest second-hand clothes you have to offer."  
>She clapped her blue hands together with glee. The Homo Sapiens on Hipsteria – a planet not too dissimilar from Earth – had mutated individually with the sole objective of becoming the most individualistic creatures imaginable, while still being loosely human. It was a wise and deliberate move by the Doctor to take the Creature to this planet: he showed that there were people who were like him, and would think nothing of his abnormal and odd appearance, in the universe. He wanted to show him that not everyone would regard him with the same hatred and fear that the hipsters of Earth did. However, the Creature remained reserved, believing that the only people who would accept him were in fact living on a different planet: Hipsteria.<br>"Well, over here, fresh in from the city of Obscura, and 'I 3 Obscura' t-shirt. It's the original, ultimate ironic shirt which will be totally impenetrable to your friends from different planets and times, if what I am told about your ship travelling in space and time is right, eh, DeLacey?"  
>"Right you are Enid! He'll have one; anything else?" The Doctor enquired.<br>"There's not really much in at the moment – sorry to disappoint you . . . I have a few blazers, some hideous jumpers, and some jeans with the pattern of a Nebula on them – the official flag of Hipsteria, manufactured in the Underground City." She told them, as if reeling off a list of consolation prizes.  
>"Perfect! I guess some people just throw away some real gems, eh, Creature?" The Doctor asked the Creature, turning around to him from the shop assistant.<br>He hadn't been listening. He was staring at the shop assistant with curious eyes, full of respect and love. The Doctor realised he had been fixated on her for a while now, and had just enjoyed listening to her rather musical accent as she talked about the clothes he loved so much. It was upsetting that she had hardly looked at him because the Doctor, the stuff of legends, had been in the room.  
>"Come along, Creature," The Doctor said, with a sad smile, as she bagged the new clothes into a fashionable leather satchel for him. "Cheerio, Enid!" He added, as they walked out of the shop.<br>The Creature's crooked smile to her went unnoticed once more, and it fell as they walked out into the fresh, oxygen-rich air of Hipsteria that was specifically designed to be deadly to any mainstream humans.  
>He dealt with his rejection like he dealt with his coming into being: he ignored it, just like his creator had ignored him. It seemed that no one was able to love him.<br>On the way back to the TARDIS, he was very quiet: the Doctor suspected he was trying to master the art of being the silent type at first, but he soon caught up to the Creature's dejected mood.  
>"Creature," He told him, "We can go back a year after when I picked you up – we've been going about a year anyway," He said, checking his golden watch. "Now . . . I think it's time for you to confront your creator,"<br>The Creature looked down at him, eyes widening, and standing stock still.  
>The Doctor's small smile up at him was marred by his sad eyes, as he tried a comforting, "Geronimo . . .!"<br>The Creature gulped, and repeated in a wavering, quiet voice:  
>"Geronimo . . ."<br>_

But Victor Frankenstein had not recovered. He had spent a year in bed, in a cold fever, cared for by his only true friend, Henry Clerval. He had refused to see anyone else; refused to allow his disapproving father or his concerned girlfriend in to see him in such a state that he was; Pale, shiny with sweat, fatigued by endless nightmares of large, unnatural hands clasping around his fragile neck.; All of it his own fault.  
>All of it destined to happen. All of it fated, predetermined, predefined, and-<br>"Easy-!"  
>He started: he was awake, yes, but it was dark and he was writhing about like he was having some sort of fit - <em>again<em>.  
>Night-time. A single candle . . . Money for electricity had run out a month ago, he realised, his fevered and inflamed mind coming up with one giddy, coherent thought to make up for the surreal hallucinations.<br>". . . Clerval . . . ?"  
>There was a dark figure in a chair across the room, by the window and bathed in alabaster moonlight, observing him at all times. Caring for him; pushing his floppy ginger hair out from his eyes; getting up, and holding a glass of cold water to his colder lips to gulp down, to put out the fire in his addled brain.<br>"Go back to sleep, Frankenstein,"  
>"But what if he comes back? What if he tries to, to-"<br>"Shh - it's okay. No one's coming. No one's out to get you, Frankenstein,"  
>And with that, Victor laughed, hysterical, with tears pouring out of his eyes and onto his pillow and duvet. Shivering with his fever, he drifted into an uneasy sleep: one he wouldn't wake up from until a year after that epoch-shattering event that had changed his formerly oh-so-hipster life into that of an invalid.<br>He laughed himself to sleep.  
>Because crying seemed too mainstream.<br>_

As they stood outside the Camden flat, ready to push the intercom button for the attic room, the Creature thought that now was the time to voice his second thoughts about being reunited with the unfortunate Victor Frankenstein.  
>"I . . . I not sure creator wants me, still. I don't think this is good idea. Doctor – listening to me?"<br>"Sorry, what was that? - I try not to listen to nonsense; I have a high enough quotient of it going on in my own head . . . Seriously, Creature, it will be fine! I promise, he'll be nothing like you remember. He will have had a long time to recover from the shock of what he did, and though it was wrong for him to abandon you, you still need to acknowledge his existence, and he yours!"  
>The Doctor turned to the Creature, and took him by the shoulders in the same way they had when they had first met one another. It was a comfort to the Creature, who was scared beyond the belief at even the suggestion of meeting the only person who, by rights, should have loved him, but rejected him. What if he were to be rejected another time? A man who would reject a newly-born creature was sure to repeat this behaviour when it was fully grown, he was sure . . . He wasn't sure he could take another rejection as bad as the last time.<br>"Every person, Creature," The Doctor said, piercing his doubtful thoughts and apprehension, "Deserves a second chance."  
>The Creature's vision locked with his mentor's, and the Timelord's dark brown eyes jarred with the ever- changing milky colour of the creation's.<br>"What about me? . . . Do I deserve, 'second chance'?" He asked quietly.  
>"You have done nothing wrong, Creature. He was in the wrong, but I promise this time, you will be accepted. I'll do everything in my power to make it so." The Doctor's sincere voice ensured him. He looked at his large, boater-shoe clad feet, and considered this.<br>"Promise?" He asked. He'd heard the word before: it meant the Doctor _had_ to do it. He had no choice. He was so confident of it, that he had promised.  
>"Promise," The Doctor confirmed, and his serious lips twitched into a smile at one side. The Creature's followed suit, mimicking his mentor and friend, with a reassured glow about this features. He clapped his tall companion on the back, trying to infuse some more confidence into him for his big moment.<br>At that moment, there was a cry from down the street:  
>"<em>Doctor!<em>" A female voice cried. It was Scottish, and sounding slightly agitated or annoyed, from what the Creature could tell. The Doctor's face fell momentarily, and then lit up with recognition. It seemed that the Creature had heard the voice better than he had – it must have been some way off, on the other side of the TARDIS.  
>"That's – That's Amy! I <em>told <em>you they'd turn up, eh, Creature?"  
>"Amy? . . . Friend?" The Creature asked, frowning.<br>"Yes! Amy and Rory – The Ponds! Or, Felix and Agatha DeLacey, depending on who you're asking-" He made to rush around to the other side of the TARDIS to greet his friends, but the Creature's large hand grabbed his arm forcefully and stopped him.  
>"Humans?" The Creature pressed, eyes once again serious but fearful. The Doctor's expression went from being confused to understanding, and yet again sincere and reassuring, in the blink of an eye.<br>"They're my friends, Creature . . . They should know how to behave. I promise, they won't reject you!"  
>"I . . . I not sure-"<br>But the Doctor was already gone, rushed around the other side of the TARDIS, beckoning for the Creature to follow him before he did so. The Creature remained on his own, dumbfounded, a multitude of conflicting thoughts rushing through his head.  
>He <em>trusted<em> the Doctor . . . But he didn't trust humans. He had never met _Amy _and _Rory_ before, but they were friends of the Doctor, just like he was, so they might be like him . . . They might be accepting of him, like the Doctor, even! He tried not to get his hopes up, but at the same time, the Doctor's words rang through his head like a songbird's chorus, benevolent and reassuring:  
><em>I promise<em>.  
>He took the leap, and rounded the corner. The Doctor had advanced slightly, waving at his friends, and beaming. He knew the Creature would follow him, because he trusted him. He was like a protégé; never mind a creator, the Doctor had created the Creature as he was now: a thriving, clever, inquisitive, fashion-conscious hipster.<br>He focussed on the smiling face of Rory, and the scowling face of Amy, as she pouted at him.  
>"You said you'd wait for us to go and get an ice cream!" She snapped as she came closer.<br>"I tried waiting! I got bored and decided to give Casanova that chicken I owed him, so obviously I had to g and _buy _ a chicken first, and when that was done, I came back, and you weren't there anymore-"  
>"We had to leave the park after <em>three days<em> of waiting for you to get back!" Rory explained with a weary sigh.  
>"It doesn't take three days to buy an ice cream, Doctor," Amy chided. "You clearly got the wrong day!"<br>"I did not! I'm never wrong! Ever!"  
>"What, except for when you're several years late?" Amy told him with an incredulous expression. His face fell as he frowned in acknowledgement of the young girl he'd left sitting in her front garden, waiting for his return. Rory raised one eyebrow, as if to tell him to just accept that this time, Amy was right, and he was in the wrong.<br>"Point taken . . . But it's fortunate I landed three days late – you know the TARDIS, she likes to land where we're most needed, and it turns out that I was needed on that day by-"  
>Suddenly, Amy's face turned from doubtful acceptance of his long-winded justification of why he was late to something approaching abject horror and fear. She interrupted the Doctor with a low, scared utterance of his name.<br>"Doctor . . . !" She said, looking at something behind him. He frowned as Rory spotted whatever she had seen too, and his face turned to fear, but also determination, as he moved his wife behind himself, taking her by the waste and moving her out of the way of the great spectre the Doctor couldn't see.  
>"Doctor, what-" Began Rory, stumbling over the words.<br>"What are you looking at?" The Doctor asked quizzically, looking about himself, and eventually turning around. There, he saw the Creature striding tentatively towards them, furtive, with a questioning expression on his face. The expression changed when he heard the tone of Amy and Rory's voices, and saw their body language, Amy behind Rory, backing away. Their eyes fixed on his with horror, as if anticipating a sudden move, a lunge, and attack.  
>"Doctor, that thing, it isn't human-"<br>"You're right, I not, I-" Began the Creature, but the low rumble of its voice only startled them, making them flinch backwards further. The Doctor didn't see this, as he was facing his protégé, and so didn't correct their behaviour, only smiled up at the Creature. However, seeing its sullen expression and fear in its eyes of the humans, he turned back.  
>"Doctor, it's between us and the TARDIS!" Amy yelled.<br>"Come on, we have to run!" Rory urged, taking Amy's hand and backing away ever faster, eyes always on the Creature, the Doctor's concerned and confused face having no bearing on their actions.  
>"No, wait! I – Amy! Amelia Pond, come back here right now!" He cried, starting after them.<br>"It'll kill you, Doctor, look at its eyes! It's a monster - _run_!" She replied, turning around, hand in hand with Rory, and running off down the deserted street and around the corner.  
>"Wait! . . ." The Doctor began to run, calling back, "Creature, wait here, I-"<br>"You promised," The Creature said, the fear in its eyes turning to total sadness.  
>"Creature, they just need to-"<br>"You _promised_!" He said, shaking his head, tears rolling from milky blue eyes, "You _lied_!"  
>"No, Creature, I didn't mean to-!" He tried to explain himself, returning to the Creature though he was torn between him and his two other companions, and going to take him by the shoulders as he had before. He was violently shoved away, the Creature easily brushing away his apologising outreaching hands and backing away.<br>"Go. Find _friends_. I not your friend, am I?"  
>"You are, Creature! You are!"<br>"Friends not lie to friends! . . . You _promised, _Doctor! You _PROMISED_!" The Creature yelled, and ran away from the TARDIS, ignoring the Doctor's protests.  
>But the Timelord had to turn away, a grim expression on his face and a tear in his eyes for his obviously lost cause, and find his companions. He knew, though, that he had lost respect for Amy and Rory Pond: his friendship with them now paled in comparison with that which had blossomed between himself and the Creature not a few minutes ago.<br>The Creature turned away from the light at that moment: he revelled in dark thoughts, as he made a solemn vow that later, when they were all inside, he would burn that blue box and all the false promises it had borne him down to the ground.  
>The Doctor wasn't his friend. The Doctor had lied.<br>He wasn't loved by anyone.  
>He <em>couldn't<em> be loved by anyone.  
>And evil thenceforth became his good.<p> 


End file.
